“Were you serious about what you said about Grael Erol and the others?” Evram asked. His face was as pale as the Witchmilk’s waters.
“Of course,” Garscap said. “They’ll all pay for their treachery.”
“And when will that be?”
Garscap blessed Evram with an indulgent smile. “I told you before. It’s all about timing.”
17
From across the mountains they came,
A council to answer his need,
Heroes of honor and acclaim,
The wise of word and great of deed.
FROM ALACKALAS AND THE FAIR PRINCESS.
Early in the morning, beneath the long shadow of the furka, Garscap waited. Saint Charlin emerged from the woods. A white-haired man followed, his arms raised high, his head jammed against his shoulder. On his head was a thorny crown of twisted black and white. Garscap stood and made the sign of the furka.
“This is the Politician of Cronesglen, Radal Faral,” Charlin said. “Radal, this is Garscap Torp. I’m sure the other politicians will arrive shortly. I’ll leave you. Saints should not intrude in politics.”
Garscap smiled. Did saints ever stop meddling?
Radal stretched to acknowledge the saint’s departure. Garscap imitated him.
“Welcome to Cronesglen,” Radal said. “Or at least its periphery.”
This was an unfortunate byproduct of the demolition of Pigsknuckle’s furkas. As the gathering of politicians could not take place in the middle of his village, Garscap was forced to cede the honor of hosting it to the Politician of Cronesglen.
“I hear strange things about Pigsknuckle. I hear its furkas have been destroyed,” Radal said.
“Not all of them. One still stands. The saints deconsecrated the rest.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“Afraid?”
Radal pressed his hand against the trunk of the furka. “We couldn’t stay in Cronesglen without our furkas. It’s a haunted place. The ghosts of the old witches who gave the valley its name still linger.”
“You mean the waterfalls?” Garscap asked. The seven cataracts in Cronesglen were said to be the endless tresses of the witches, turned to water.
“Their malevolent spirits are soaked into the valley. They’re in the water, the earth, and the air. Sometimes, their murderous wails shiver through the night. I have heard them myself. No beast could make those cries. They want their valley back, their forest bearded again, and their altar restored and glistening with blood. The furkas protect us from their evil. You smile?”
Garscap struggled not to laugh at the old man’s superstitious nonsense. “I find your faith inspiring.”
Radal’s arms reached into the air. Garscap turned to see a young man approaching. His gaunt, hungry face reminded Garscap of the thieving urchins in Formicary. A thorny crown of green and black rested on the stranger’s greasy brown hair. The light redness of his beard accentuated its scarcity. He responded to Radal Faral’s salute with a half-hearted flap of his arms. He introduced himself as Mogod Kulum of Stonegarden.
“You came without a saint,” Radal observed.
“One accompanied me to the edge of the forest, but he would go no farther. He was afraid if he came any closer, he might be corrupted, I suppose.”
Radal appeared to wrestle with Mogod’s comment for a few moments. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Never mind,” Mogod Kulum said. His smile was too worldly for Garscap’s liking.
“You look familiar. Have you ever been to Formicary?” Garscap asked.
“I’ve never left the mountains,” Mogod replied in a tone implying those who did were failures.
The drip of politicians became a trickle and then a stream. The faces of many were young and lean, perhaps indicating the Year of Bleeding Snow had given them their thorny crowns. Some hailed from Pigsknuckle’s neighbors, like Highstep and Wyrmery. Others represented villages on the fringes of the Stretchers’ territory, places of which Garscap knew little other than their names, such as Kneadlea and Wolfden. A few. like Beardwood and Skullridge, were unfamiliar. The distinctively colored halo on every head flavored the throng milling around the furka with an exoticism that Garscap had not experienced since his days in Formicary. The crowd’s size impressed upon him how numerous his race was. If each of these politicians led a community as large as Pigsknuckle, then they could muster an enormous army.
Lohor Teevan weaved through the crowd to salute Garscap. He was a short, stocky man. The yellow and blue of Littleknuckle rested on a balding pate, while his gray beard extended with threatening length from his jaw. His bulging brown eyes and grotesquely broad smile made him look like a hairy frog. Lohor’s community was Pigsknuckle’s nearest neighbor. He greeted Garscap with all the exaggerated bonhomie that had once been reserved for Widan. Garscap welcomed him in the same fashion, all the while remembering that, despite Lohor’s affability, he had failed to help the orphans and widows of Cliffringden. For such a holy people, Stretchers could be not very charitable.
Radal was calling the meeting to order as the last politician arrived. Wearing the yellow and red thorny crown of Ogresquern, he introduced himself to the assembly as Avel Kuny. Black hair circled his face. His complexion, tanned and speckled by the sun, emphasized the ghostly pallor of his large blue eyes.
“I believe one of you might be a distant kinsman of mine. Which of you is the Politician of Pigsknuckle?” he said as he joined the group.
“I am. I’m Garscap Torp.”
“You’re not a Melkath?”
“The Melkaths no longer rule Pigsknuckle. I’m its politician now.” Garscap declined to mention his marriage to Widan’s daughter.
“You deserve congratulations. You achieved something my ancestors couldn’t. Of course, I feel some sympathy for the Melkaths. I’m grateful to them. Had they not driven my family from Pigsknuckle, I might have ended up ruling that heap of excrement instead of Ogresquern.”
Garscap shrugged and smiled.
Radal hushed the titters rippling through the crowd. “You shouldn’t speak like that beside a furka. Perhaps we should begin with a prayer to the Forelight for guidance.”
A few nodded enthusiastically. The countenances of others expressed groans they did not dare utter. The majority accepted Radal’s proposal with stony silence. The Politician of Cronesglen began the Forelight’s Prayer, and the others joined in.
“So, why were we summoned here?” Mogod asked when they had finished.
“We represent every village in the Stretches,” Garscap said. It was hard to believe this motley gathering comprised the noblest leaders that his race could find. “Each of us is responsible for the protection and welfare of his community. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of that burden. This is an unprecedented gathering, but if it had taken place not so long ago, another politician would have attended. I’m referring to the Politician of Cliffringden. That village is no more. The Fair Folk destroyed it. They have built a mighty fortress on its corpse, from which they intend to strike deeper into our lands. If we don’t join together, they’ll destroy us one by one. Any of us could be their next victim.”
“Stonegarden is beyond their reach,” Mogod Kulum said.
“True, for the moment,” Garscap admitted. “But when the Fair Folk have wiped out all the villages between what was Cliffringden and your village, what chance has Stonegarden alone to withstand their onslaught? If we are to survive, we must put aside old enmities and join together to defeat our common enemy.”
“So you propose some form of alliance?” Avel Kuny asked. “Fine words, but what does it mean in practice?”
“Well, for example, I have a group of Elves at my disposal,” Garscap said.
A few jaws dropped, but most of the politicians didn’t show any surprise. Evidently, they had already heard the rumor.
“They’re Stretchers like us. They’re training my people to fight the Fair Folk’s legions. I’m offering the same instructi
on to your warriors.”
“And what do you want in exchange for this generosity?” Mogod asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Mogod repeated.
“Nothing,” Garscap emphasized, relishing the gasps and bewildered countenances. “Of course, guarantees will have to be given before saints that my hospitality will not be abused.”
“I’m not interested,” Mogod said. “Stonegarden doesn’t need Pigsknuckle’s aid to look after its own. What you propose is akin to inviting the Gilt Spider for supper or seeking advice from witches.”
Other politicians voiced concern that their communities would disapprove of fraternization with Fair Folk, whatever their religion.
“I’m leaving,” one politician declared. “I can’t see where the trick in this lies, but I can smell it.”
As he stood to go, Avel called him to a halt. “You’re foolish to leave without a saint’s protection. Warriors from rival villages may be lurking in the forest. Wait for your saint.”
“If warriors are out there, I assure you they’re not from Cronesglen,” Radal said.
“This alliance will need a leader,” Garscap said. “One of us must be senior to the others to prevent our league from being wrecked by disputes and petty rivalries. I’m ideally qualified for the role. Given my experience as a mercenary captain in Formicary, I’m uniquely equipped for the sort of war we face.”
The other politicians laughed. Even the pious Radal Faral could not suppress a chuckle.
“What could you offer to make us agree to such absurdity?” Mogod asked.
“How long have you been Politician of Stonegarden?”
“Half a year.”
“And you?” Garscap pointed to another youngish politician.
“A season or so,” he admitted nervously.
“Times are hard,” Garscap said. “In hard times, people have little patience for their politicians. That impatience bestowed to some of us our thorny crowns, but it could take back those crowns just as easily. Mine is absolutely safe. None in Pigsknuckle would dare to challenge my authority because it is guaranteed by a saint’s blessing.”
“That’s preposterous!” Mogod cried. “No saint would dabble in politics so flagrantly.”
Garscap placed one hand on the furka. “I’m telling the truth. And I promise if you accept me as your leader, the saint will extend the same blessing to you.”
“Nonsense!” Mogod protested.
“Impossible!” someone else cried.
“If the saints are so amenable to his rule, then I must accept their wisdom,” Radal said.
“And what do you say?” Garscap said to Avel.
“I’m interested.” Avel responded to the gasps from the crowd with a shrug. “I bear his people no love. The enmity between our villages is renowned but paltry in comparison to my family’s detestation of Pigsknuckle. However, his offer still interests me, if he can deliver on it. I would sleep a lot easier at night knowing my crown was secure. Be honest. Can any of you say anything different?”
“My village will never pay tribute to Pigsknuckle!” someone in the crowd roared.
Garscap shook his head. “None is sought. Your sole obligation is to place your warriors at my disposal to fight the Fair Folk.”
“If I go back to my people and tell them I agreed to that, they would fling me off the nearest cliff,” Mogod said.
“The saints back Garscap’s proposal,” Radal said, drawing a disgusted grunt from Mogod and grumbling from other politicians.
“You are missing the point,” Garscap said. “The saint’s blessing will shield you from the indignation of your village. Saintly decree will make your rule perpetual.”
That was enough for several politicians, including Mogod. Victory was within Garscap’s grasp. He was about to request a vote when Lohor demanded to speak.
“Your offer is an attractive one,” Lohor said to Garscap. “I’d like to know if every monastery is party to this blessed edict.”
“It only needs one saint to be convinced of its merit,” Garscap said. “What one saint binds, no other saint will unbind. And I have such a saint.”
“I have never heard the like before,” Radal said. “It has the smell of intrigue. I don’t like it.”
“Relying on subterfuge to secure our reigns may serve to hasten our ruin,” Lohor said. “The monasteries might not take kindly to such trickery, when it is discovered.”
“I won over this saint not by some tawdry ploy but by logical argument,” Garscap said. “I told him any politician who sent his men to be trained by my Orstretcherists placed his thorny crown in jeopardy. Some of you have made the same observation. My pious collaborator agreed that, in this time of crisis, any politician brave enough to submit his men to the Orstretcherists’ tutelage deserved saintly imprimatur for his authority. If this proves to be wrong, the blame shall fall on him and me alone. Any of you who earn the blessing will be no worse off than you are now in the unlikely event that it is ever rescinded. While it stands, nobody will dare challenge you.”
“The repercussions of losing that blessing for those who lean on it too much might not be as slight as you claim,” Radal said.
“The Politician of Cronesglen talks of consequences that might happen in some distant future,” Avel said. “My worries exist in the present. Unlike Radal, who has ruled his village since before I was born, I haven’t such a tight hold on my thorny crown that I can ignore Garscap’s offer. I advise others in my position to do the same.”
“I find it hard to believe you are so willing to swear allegiance to your most bitter enemy,” Lohor said.
“The breadth of that fealty is narrow,” Avel said. “And its reward is so great.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Lohor admitted, rubbing his jaw as he cogitated. “This saintly blessing would be a boon. However, the permanence of my thorny crown is of no matter if Littleknuckle becomes another Martyrsgrave. I won’t make a promise that places my people in jeopardy. The safety of my village takes precedence over any pledge of support I might decide to offer Garscap. I reserve the right to disregard his orders if they put Littleknuckle in danger.”
Garscap’s heart sank as several heads in the crowd nodded in agreement. “I would never ask you to do that. You can trust me.”
Lohor grinned and shook his head. “It’s not about trust. It’s about the principle.”
Garscap nodded and tried his best to sound sympathetic as he nervously eyed the crowd’s growing restlessness. “Of course. I’ve no quarrel with what you are saying.” The validity of Lohor’s condition was so obvious that any argument Garscap might make against it would only serve to alienate his audience. He had no choice but to concede it.
Avel smiled. “I’ve heard enough.” He strolled over to the furka and placed a hand on the stone. “I recognize Garscap Torp as the leader of our fight against the Fair Folk’s invasion. I pledge my fealty to him in that capacity, provided it doesn’t endanger Ogresquern.”
One by one, other politicians followed his example, including Lohor and Mogod. Some of the more long-reigning politicians demurred, claiming they needed more time to consider the matter, but their opposition faltered when Radal placed his hands on the furka and solemnly promised his fidelity.
A long train of shadows stretched behind the furka when the saints began to dribble back to take away their charges. As the evening sank into night, only Garscap and Avel remained.
“That went well,” the Politician of Ogresquern said. “I didn’t mention we had met before this gathering. Of course, it wasn’t my intention to deceive the other politicians.” He shrugged and smiled. “I simply feared it might complicate the debate.”
Garscap smiled. “I can vouch you uttered no untruth.” Though Avel had been extremely misleading.
“Apologies for my unflattering comment about Pigsknuckle,” Avel said. “Of course, I meant it in jest.”
“I realized that,” Garscap said. “It was good to remind
the other politicians of our villages’ former enmity.”
“I thought so,” Avel said.
Garscap and Avel had a lot in common. Both were outsiders in the villages they ruled. Both hated the Melkaths. Both desired power. And Garscap offered something his rival could not resist.
“So, when will you take my sister Talida as your wife?” Avel asked.
“Very soon. I have a few matters to resolve first,” Garscap replied. Like getting rid of his current wife. Avel would doubtless be amused on learning the truth. It would add some extra spice to the prospect of his nephew wearing the thorny crown of Pigsknuckle. But now was not the time to mention it. Not until it had been resolved. Hopefully, Talida was not ugly.
“I suppose we should be thankful to our pious friend from Cronesglen,” Garscap said. “Even if he’s a bit slow-witted, without his support, we might have struggled to convince the dissidents.”
Avel chuckled. “You underestimate Radal Faral at your peril. He has worn the thorny crown of Cronesglen longer than either of us has lived. He is wilier than we and all the other politicians combined. Remember the boy and girl from your village that were kidnapped by the Jinglemen? Their captors’ carts were recovered, and Radal insisted on giving the vehicles and their contents to the boy. Some say he was afraid such a trove would spark disputes among his own people. Some say he knew it was cursed. You can scoff, but the Jinglemen died at the Gilt Spider’s hands, and the politician who accepted it is politician no more.”
The implication was unflattering. Garscap’s rise in power was not due a curse. It was preposterous nonsense. Still, he would be more wary of the Politician of Cronesglen in the future.
He would also remember Lohor Teevan’s contribution to the debate.
A Bright Power Rising Page 25